


Bucket List

by DivergentLunarShadowhunter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: #221Boom, Canon, Canon Rewrite, Gen, In case you were wondering, Kinda, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, The final problem spoilers, but i couldn't get it out of my head, but it was stupid, maybe not, oh yeah, so now it's in the tags, takes place during tfp, that was going to be the name of this, the flat-exploding scene, this is stupid but i'm posting it anyways, umm what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 19:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10315247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivergentLunarShadowhunter/pseuds/DivergentLunarShadowhunter
Summary: This was just me playing around with the *SPOILER* exploding flat scene in The Final Problem. Totally canon (I think, I tried my best), so if you were looking for a fix-it or something go somewhere else. Not that I wouldn't write a fix-it; that's just not what this is. Anyways it's the explosion of 221B and then the aftermath that leads them to Sherrinford, it went way over my expectations word-wise so I hope it's not too long and boring :(Hope you like it! Please read and comment and enjoy :D





	

Bucket List

 

_ I that am lost, oh, who will find me _

_ Deep down below, the old beech tree? _ _   
_ _ Help succour me now, the East Wind’s blowing _

_ Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go _

_ My soul seeks, the shade of my willow’s bloom… _

 

Three men exchanged glances as they stiffened, automatically shifting into positions of readiness. All were curious, wary, tense.

 

As they should have been, because the drone was a DX-707, and a single movement could wipe away the lives of all who surrounded it.

 

Somehow, their conversations were measured, steady; not panicked or sad or defeated. Just three men standing in a triangle in the middle of a room, speaking casually- albeit carefully- about the bomb in front of them. __   
  


“How powerful?”

 

“It will certainly destroy this flat and kill anyone in it. Assuming walls of reasonable strength, your neighbours should be safe, but as it’s landed on the floor, I am moved to wonder if the café below is open.”

 

John resisted the urge to shake his head at the craziness of it all. He refused to let the dreaded thoughts crowd his head, but they whispered at the corner of his mind.  _ You’re going to move. The bomb is going to blow up. Sherlock’s going to die, Mycroft’s going to die... _ **_you’re_ ** _ going to die. Rosie won’t have a mother, or a father. She’ll be an orphan. Molly will have to take care of her without you. _

 

Sherlock was having similar whispers, of course; most of them about John and how he’d broken his vow once more, how John was going to die and so was his brother and so was he...and why? His brain, unlike John’s, was trying to figure out the meaning behind the bomb. Already had, in fact.

 

_ Eurus. _ A glance at his brother’s petrified face was all he’d needed to confirm the hypothesis, so his brain had switched back to the task at hand-  _ not _ dying.

 

The cafe was closed, which John supposed was a good thing; better to limit the casualties to three. Although, he amended, zero would be pretty nice too.

 

“She keeps the vacuum cleaner at the back of the flat.” John offered as the sound of the vacuum drifted up from downstairs.

 

“So?” Again, John resisted the urge to shake his head- this time in annoyance at Mycroft’s ignorance.

 

“So, safer there when she’s putting it away?” John and Sherlock hold their breath as Mycroft tilts his head towards John, eyes flicking to the bomb that miraculously decides not to be triggered.

 

“Look, we have to move eventually. We should do it when she’s safest.”

 

The conversation descends into an escape plan, seeming more and more hopeless with every word. Three seconds. The time it takes for any of the men to take two steps is the amount of time they will have to somehow escape a second-story flat. Mycroft has the easiest way out, even if it is the most dangerous. If all goes well, he should be able to vault down the stairs and scare the living daylights out of Mrs. Hudson (forget the bomb- both Sherlock and John thought the sight of Mycroft would be enough to scare her). If all  _ didn’t  _ go well, one or both of them could perish.

 

John didn’t even want to think about what  _ he _ was expected to do: launch himself towards the window and fling himself out of it. It was suicidal, extremely dangerous. But what was the alternative? The window provided him with a slim chance of survival, but anything that could bring him to Rosie one last time was worth it. And, he told himself, Sherlock would be jumping out the adjacent window- either they both lived, or they both died. John found himself thinking about it like a warped version of a suicide pact.  _ If you jump, I will _ . 

 

_ At least this time I’ll be jumping with you… _

 

Sherlock was calm, knowing that if he let any alien thoughts interrupt the blankness of his mind he would panic and change his mind. He’d flippantly assigned their positions for escape based on their locations, the obvious exits showing themselves like dotted markers in his mind.  _ John, ten feet from the window. If I estimate one stride to cover half of that distance, he could make it to the window in two. But if he is one second too late, if he trips or stumbles… _

 

_ Mycroft has the safest and most dangerous route, but he’ll make it. He always makes it, the bastard. _

 

Mycroft himself wasn’t so sure. His diet had been recently ruined by his anxiety towards Sherrinford (and his apparent inability to remember the groceries- the woman who called herself Anthea blatantly refused to pick them up for him, even when offered a suitable raise), and he admitted out loud to Sherlock that he was the slower one. Even when Sherlock confirmed his train of thought- that distance was more important- Mycroft couldn’t help but regret the lapse in his strict eating practices. He supposed that’s what happened when you were about to die; you regret your last decisions and wish you could change them. 

 

Not that that had ever happened to him, of course. Unlike his younger brother, he would never admit to having nightmares or thoughts that plagued him. But he knew Sherlock had seen it in his face when the drone had played that godforsaken song.

 

“I estimate we have a minute left,” Sherlock said, interrupting his brother’s thoughts along with John’s and his own. “Is a phone call possible?”

 

_ Of course not _ . John knew that. The possibility had flitted through his mind, sure, but there was no point. He was sentimental, as Sherlock would say; emotional, connected,  _ caring _ . He was all of those things, which seemed to be things that the Holmes brothers would give anything to avoid being called. Personally, he didn’t consider caring to be a disadvantage, but that didn’t mean he would chance death just to attempt a single phone call with a daughter that probably wouldn’t even recognize his voice yet.

 

“Phone call?” Both of the men near the windows could hear the incredulity in Mycroft’s voice. 

  
“John has a daughter. He may wish to say goodbye.”  _ There’s no point, Sherlock. _

 

Sherlock knew there was no point, just like John. He’d only offered the suggestion as a sort of  apology, hoping John would understand that he was thinking of him, thinking about his daughter at a time like this, as John must have been.

 

“I’m sorry, Doctor Watson. Any movement will set off the grenade. I hope you understand.” Yes, John understood, but it still almost sent a shiver through him when it underlined the thought that he might not get out of this alive.

 

“Oscar Wilde.” John spoke before he even realized what he was saying. His mind had just cleared suddenly, the fact popping into his head like an innocent interruption.

 

“What?” Both Holmes brothers frowned at John, moving their faces as little as possible. If it had been a different time, John might have laughed at the fact that he had caught both of them off guard. At times like these, the shared blood between them became much more apparent, even though he knew neither of them would ever admit it.   
  


“He said, ‘The truth is rarely pure, and never simple.’ It’s from ‘The Importance of Being Earnest.’ We did it in school.” Some of the tension seeps out of the room as he speaks, and he could’ve sworn he saw Sherlock smile. Even Mycroft’s face softened slightly.

 

“So did we. Now I recall. I was Lady Bracknell.” John almost snorted at the thought of Mycroft in any sort of mundane activity; much less in a school play,  as a  _ woman. _ He would’ve liked to see Sherlock and Mycroft in school, as a matter of fact- although his life would have been dangerous from the start of their association, so it was probably a good thing fate had waited until now to entwine their paths.

  
“Yeah. You were great.”

 

“You really think so?”

 

“Yes, I really do.” John fleetingly wished he could have recorded the moment between the brothers; although Sherlock would probably have taken back his compliment as soon as the camera stopped rolling.

 

“Well, that’s good to know. I’ve always wondered.” A moment of silence punctuated the last sentence as the Holmes brothers stared at each other quizzically. For a moment, John’s thought was that maybe even Mycroft and Sherlock forgot their relationship sometimes, like he and Harry had on occasion.

 

And then the vacuum stopped, and Sherlock said ‘Good luck, boys’ and counted down from three and it was all too fast and John wasn’t ready and then it was time.

 

Before any of them could hesitate, they all turned their backs in unison- or, at least, from what each man could see in the split second before they turned away completely. Mycroft lunged for the stairs, trying valiantly not to trip and kill himself in a foolish manner (even though nobody would ever know).

 

John took two steps towards the window, feeling a shot of adrenaline cut through the shock as he made the final jump and turned his shoulder to take the impact of the window shattering.  _ What the hell am I doing with my life?  _ he thought, as he sailed towards the glass. So much for final thoughts.

 

Simultaneously, his friend whirled around and leaped onto his chair, knowing it wouldn’t topple over. He didn’t have to jump off of the chair; it probably wouldn’t save him any time, but he did it anyways. Turning to his side, he pushed off the seat and braced his shoulder for impact.

For a moment, John and Sherlock made eye contact, conveying emotions of panic as they watched the other break through the glass as if in slow motion. Neither felt pain as the brunt of the impact shuddered through their bodies. That would come later, after the adrenaline rush had worn off.

 

John resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut as glass shards flew past his face, knowing it was suicide to close them. He felt the wash of searing heat and heard the dull  _ boom _ as the surge pushed him away from the building, seeing nothing but smoke and flame and a flash of sidewalk.

 

To Sherlock, the feeling of flying through the air towards the ground was nothing new, and yet the dread as he remembered jumping off the roof of Bart’s writhed inside him. His brain, as usual, fought the emotions and searched for logic, allowing Sherlock to clear his mind of everything but the logistics of his jump. Considering the probable force of the blast, plus his own momentum propelling him through the air, he tried to prepare himself for the landing as much as he could.

 

He remained silent throughout the jump, a small gasp the only air leaving his mouth in the agonizing seconds after the explosion. Except for a ringing in his ears, all was eerily silent; until John yelled as he broke into free air, and Sherlock heard it, giving him a slight bit of hope.

 

“Now!” Sherlock yelled back as he caught sight of the pavement. Unfortunately he’d jumped a little too far, missing the familiar red awning that marked Speedy’s cafe, which meant he’d have nothing to cushion his fall. Not that it would have mattered, logically. The fabric would only have buckled under his weight, and then he’d have the owner pressing charges and it would just be a mess.

 

John heard Sherlock’s yell right before the smoke beneath him cleared and his waving feet flew past a stripe of maroon. Instantly, his torso twisted around and his arms reached for the canopy, ignoring the jerk of pain that shot up both of his arms as they slid down the curved surface. His fingers scrambled for a hold, but it was too late; he was already sliding off the edge.

 

The awning had slowed him down, however, and his legs were able to bend into the correct position to land before the sidewalk rushed up to his feet and he was there, half-standing for a moment and wondering how he was still alive before he remembered to drop and roll to spread the impact. It was something he’d done a few times before, whether with Sherlock or during his army years, but those had been his earlier years. His knees buckled and his roll was more of a poorly-disguised fall onto the concrete, and he knew he would be feeling sore for days, but it didn’t matter as he hit the ground. He was still breathing and intact and for now that was enough for him.

 

Not allowing himself to savor the moment, he scrambled to his feet immediately in search of Sherlock. Had Sherlock hit the awning too? Or had he missed it, flying straight towards the unforgiving pavement? There was no way to tell besides the fact that Sherlock was nowhere in sight. 

 

But a second later, he was, bursting through the cloud of smoke like a black dragon with his coat flapping around him. He hit the ground like a cat, kneeling quickly and rolling to his feet after a moment. Of course Sherlock had to look presentable, even after jumping out of a second-floor building, but John did notice he’d stumbled forward a bit, almost off the end of the sidewalk.

 

Sherlock whirled around to face John, sighing in relief as he spotted him. The corner of his mouth quirked up as he saw his friend standing normally a few steps away, as if he hadn’t just risked his life jumping out of a building.

 

“You hit the awning, I presume?” Sherlock took a deep breath, ruffling his hair with his hands and coughing at the smoke that invaded his lungs. Neither of them could see more than a few feet in any direction, and debris was still raining down around them, but for the moment they felt invincible. Both of them were probably hurt, of course; a sprained ankle was likely, maybe even a torn muscle, and enough scratches and bruises and burns to last a lifetime. But given the circumstances, they were lucky to be in such good shape.

 

“Yeah,” John breathed, staring around at the rubble. He met Sherlock’s eyes, and then they were laughing. He put his hands on his knees as he laughed and coughed and bent over from both and just didn’t care, because he knew his friend was doing the same thing.

 

“All the things we’ve done,” John gasped, trying to catch his breath. He shook his head in disbelief and laughed again, feeling woozy as he realized what had just happened.

 

“‘Jump out of the flat’ can now be checked off of the bucket list, then.” Sherlock continued when John stopped, setting them both off into more fits of laughter.

 

“Was- Was it on yours?” John asked, and Sherlock shrugged, holding in another laugh as they both straightened and brushed the glass off of their clothes carefully.

 

“Probably.” John snorted and shook his head.

 

“Why am I not surprised?” They both turned towards the door of 221 Baker Street at the same time, the same thoughts running through their heads.  _ Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson. Did they make it out? _

 

John moved towards the door cautiously, as if afraid it would explode. Tugging at the door revealed nothing; both of them had remembered after a moment that it would be locked, of course it would be locked.

 

“Mycroft?” John said through the door. “Mrs. Hudson? Are you alright?”

 

After an agonizing moment, the door swung open and both members of interest stumbled out. John caught Mrs. Hudson as Mycroft’s arm released her, checking her over for injuries and finding her relatively unharmed, at least externally. She shook as John’s arm wrapped around her, but she wasn’t crying.

 

Mycroft looked relieved to see his brother, but thankfully for Sherlock he kept his distance, nodding once in his direction as he regained his composure.

 

“Is everybody okay?” John asked, eyes scanning the small group. Sherlock and Mycroft nodded, and Mrs. Hudson ceased her shaking and took a calming breath.

 

“Yes, I believe so,” she replied with a small smile. As if on cue, all four turned to look at the blackened expanse that had been 221 Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson sighed.

 

“You’d better tell me what you’ve done this time, boys. This is still going on your rent, you know.”

  
  


It was such a thing to say, something  _ only _ the old woman would say, and it caused John and Sherlock to laugh once again. Even Mycroft raised his eyebrows in that all-too-familiar expression of his. 

 

John approached the door again after a moment, which had been left open by Mycroft. Covering his face with his sleeve, he could hear sirens in the distance as he started up the steps to 221B. Sherlock was right behind him, with Mycroft trailing behind and eventually following Mrs. Hudson to her own apartment to survey the damage.

 

Silence pervaded the room as John approached the door. He sucked in a breath, sensing his friend waiting behind him, and opened the door to the flat.

 

They stood there for a moment, letting the smoke clear out into the hallway, and stared at the destruction. Sherlock was the first to move, sweeping past John to bat at the flames that were still consuming all of his papers.

 

John couldn’t help thinking that for an unsentimental person, Sherlock sure had a lot of possessions. Stepping over a ruined chunk of carpet, John stared at the scorch mark where the drone had been, shivering at the cool air that drifted in through the smashed windows. The bomb had been powerful, obviously. But something was nagging at John.

 

“This isn’t right,” he said. Sherlock turned to look at John, confused.

 

“What isn’t?”

 

“I mean-” He gestured at the floor. “It’s still there. The floor, I mean.” Sherlock blinked, realizing what John was trying to say.

 

“Mycroft said it was powerful. He said it might have even harmed anybody below us, in the cafe. So why…?”

 

“Eurus,” John murmured quietly. Sherlock fell silent, stooping to pick up a few charred items from the floor at his feet.

 

“You think…?”

 

“I think she wanted to warn us,” John finished. “Think about it. Would she really have wanted to kill both of her siblings? I don’t think that was the reason for her showing herself in the first place, do you? It just doesn’t make sense.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “It would definitely explain what she’s done.” They both turned as Mycroft’s footsteps thudded on the staircase, and the man entered the room warily, surveying the damage as Sherlock and John had done.

 

“Mrs. Hudson’s rooms look almost entirely intact as well. She must have modified the drone.”

 

“Yes, we know.” Sherlock replied loftily, pointedly refusing to look at Mycroft. John rolled his eyes and joined Sherlock in cleaning up some of the items in the flat, many charred beyond recognition.

 

“This is hopeless,” Mycroft stated. “There’s no time. If we really are to go to Sherrinford, we must do so immediately, before Eurus decides to try any more of her little tricks.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Says the person who was  _ so  _ certain that she'd never get out of the prison you kept her in.”

 

Mycroft pressed his lips together in a thin line, looking as disapproving as ever. He pulled out his cell phone and stepped carefully into the kitchen, presumably to inform the government about the explosion (and find a way to cover it up).

 

John pulled out his phone as well, shooting an apologetic look at Sherlock before he dialed Molly and put her on speaker. He motioned with the phone at Sherlock to get the man to come over, which he did after a brief hesitation.

 

“Hello?” Molly seemed hesitant as well, and John remembered that Molly still didn’t know that Sherlock’s drug problem hadn’t been completely real.

 

“Hi, Molly, it’s John and Sherlock. Um...are you alright?”

 

“...Of course I am. Why? What’s happened?”

 

“There was an explosion in the flat.”

 

“What?” John quickly assured her that they were alright, and that no, it wasn’t another one of Sherlock’s failed experiments this time. He hesitated, glancing at Sherlock.

 

“Do I tell her?” He mouthed, hoping his friend would understand. Sherlock shook his head and whispered back, covering the bottom of John’s phone with one hand while he spoke.

 

“She doesn’t know yet, and I don’t want to chance putting her in danger.”

 

“Are you still there?” Molly said through the phone. John opened his mouth to respond, but the taller man spoke first.

 

“Yes, Molly, we’re still here, but we have to go now. Goodbye.” Ignoring Molly and John’s protests, he took the phone from John and ended the call.

 

“Why’d you do that?”

 

“She can’t know something’s happening. If she has any indication that we are in trouble, or that we intend to go after the person responsible for the bomb, she could tell someone.”

 

“And why, exactly, is that a bad thing?”

 

“Because,” Mycroft said, walking back into the room and tucking his phone away into his pocket, “Nobody needs to know who bombed this flat.”

 

_ Of course. He doesn't want people to know that Eurus exists. Or that she’s gotten out.  _ John sighed. 

 

“Alright. But what do we do now?”

 

Sherlock turned in a slow circle, frowning at the still-smoking apartment. 

 

“Now,” he said slowly, “Our flat has blown up from an unfortunate malfunction of the gas heater. Mycroft is in the hospital...they're not sure if he's going to make it. John was downstairs with Mrs. Hudson; he left London to stay with his sister until the flat could be repaired.”

 

Satisfied, he nods, looking from Mycroft to John. 

 

“Mycroft?” John asked as he realized what was going on.  _ He wants to cover so we can go to Sherrinford. _ It made sense- go when nobody would be expecting. They could be back home before anybody even noticed they were gone. Mycroft nodded. 

 

“Consider it done. But what about you, Sherlock?”

 

“Yeah,” John joined in. “You’ve created an alibi for everyone but yourself.” Sherlock smirked. 

 

“I'm going to go to Sherrinford by myself.”

  
  


“No!”

 

“Absolutely not!” Mycroft and John exclaimed at the same time. Sherlock shrugged. 

 

“Do you have any better ideas? She's obviously trying to warn us, but she's also trying to contact us. Coming here as Faith, posing as John’s therapist? She obviously wants me to go to Sherrinford.”

 

“ _ If _ she's even there!” John replied. “She could be anywhere in the world by now.”

 

“No,” Mycroft said, causing both Sherlock and John to turn and look at him curiously. Mycroft shook his head thoughtfully.

 

“No,” he repeated, “She  _ could  _ be, but she won't be. If I assume Eurus’s brain is  _ anything  _ similar to my own, I would think that she's trying to lead us back to Sherrinford, because that's the first place we would go. We wouldn't know to go anywhere else. Also,” he took a breath. “I have just been in touch with Sherrinford.”

 

“And?”

 

“They have confirmed that Eurus is in residence at this moment.”

 

“Well, what are we waiting for, then?” Sherlock’s face lit up in the excitement he got during a case. “Let's pay our little sister a visit.”

 

Mycroft scoffed. 

 

“You can't possibly think you can just  _ walk  _ into Sherrinford. If Eurus got out, she couldn’t have done it alone. She must have somehow gotten help from inside the prison, and that is the reason it is extremely dangerous to go there, especially alone.”

 

“Mycroft, we  _ have  _ to.” Sherlock spoke forcefully, staring at his brother. “This isn’t just about our family anymore. Our sister could have hurt other people or be planning to. We have to stop her.”

 

“He’s right, Mycroft.” John shook his head and straightened as much as he could to look at his friend. “But I’m not letting you go alone.”

 

“Neither am I,” Mycroft agreed, reluctantly adding; “I know the security better than either of you. If we’re going to get to the island, you’re going to need my help.”

 

“I figured,” Sherlock sighed dramatically, dismissing his brother with a wave of his hand. “Fine, we’ll all go. But we need a plan.”

 

And so the three of them sat in the smoldering room and plotted the downfall of Eurus Holmes. 

 

Little did they know that their sister and enemy was  _ way _ ahead of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks again to Ariane DeVere for her transcript of TFP on LiveJournal, I don't know what I'd do without you! (Well I'd have to re-watch the episode and I don't have any way of doing that so yeah). 
> 
> I know that was a sucky ending but wow that was getting way too long. Like, seriously, it was the shortest scene ever in the show and look what I did. Over 4 thousand words. 10 full pages on Docs. It’s time to stop.
> 
> Length aside, I hope you liked it! I wasn’t sure what to do with some parts because I had to make sure to keep the canon accuracy; if I did something that interferes with that please let me know, I might be a writer but I care very much for canon accuracy if I’m not doing an AU :)
> 
> Anyways, hope you liked it, tell me what you thought! Look out for another oneshot (kind of a sequel to You've Always Counted, as it takes place right after that, but it can be read as a standalone I guess) about Rosie coming home and the reaction of John and all that post-TFP stuff that will probably never be addressed in the show. Also my big crossover project Demons on Baker Street should be finished by the end of April (it's my priority for my first ever Camp NaNoWriMo, so we'll see how that goes!), and I'll start posting chapters regularly.
> 
> Alright, bye! Sorry that was long!
> 
> ~Divergent. Lunar. Shadowhunter. (Sherlockian)


End file.
